


Back Once More

by slytherinwholocker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherinwholocker/pseuds/slytherinwholocker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns, and John struggles to figure out what his feelings are for a certain detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back Once More

Sherlock took a deep breath, looking up at the intimidating door of Baker Street. Three years, three long years, and he was finally back. He didn’t look exactly the same, he knew it, but it was still him, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. He bit his lip, a habit he had gained recently, and knocked. Would John even recognize him? Of course he would, he was John, his John. It didn’t matter if Sherlock’s face was scarred badly, his body bruised and battered and mangled. It was him.

John frowned when he heard the door go. Who would be calling at this hour? It was ten at night, nobody came this late. Nobody came at all, really. Ever since Sherlock’s death, he had been a mess, a shell of himself. He spent all of his time alone; he quit his job, hardly ate or slept. He was a mess, and he hated it. He knew he should be stronger than, this he was a soldier after all. But somehow, losing Sherlock had been like a part of him died as well. But it could be Lestrade, or somebody that needed help from the semi consulting detective.

He had taken the job over when Sherlock jumped, in a sense. He hadn’t meant to, he never thought he’d be good enough. But a few weeks after the fall, he had gotten a call from Lestrade, about a case they were having trouble with at the Yard. John had frowned into the phone, his brow creasing in confusion. “What do you want me to do, Greg? He’s dead, you know that. There’s nobody to help you.” He had sighed. But the DI begged to differ. He figured that John would have picked a few things up from Sherlock, and maybe he could be some use. John hesitantly agreed, and went to the scene. He was able to pick up on things nobody else was, and he loved it. The sense of thrill, of danger, the looks of shock he received. He had helped to solve the case in two days. Not a record, but he was proud of it. Almost like having Sherlock back himself.

John tore his mind away from the past, and sighed, getting up and grabbing his cane. The limp had returned as well, no matter how much he knew it was psychosomatic. He wanted to tell himself that it didn’t have anything to do with Sherlock’s death, but he would be lying to himself. It was Sherlock, always. John’s life had started revolving around the man. He limped down the stairs, frowning in pain, and opened the door.

“Look, I’m really not in the mood for any-“ He started, before he finally looked at who had knocked. No, it couldn’t be him. He had jumped; he had jumped three years ago, from the roof. He was dead! “This is impossible,” John whispered, his breathing coming quicker. Sure, he had ‘talked’ to Sherlock while he was solving the cases he took back to the flat, but that had just been his mind coping with trauma and loss. This, though…this looked real, and it took his breath away. He opened his mouth to peak again, but Sherlock jumped in before he could, the git.

“I’m sorry. I can’t begin to imagine what you went through here, without me. I’m so, so sorry John. I had to do it, if I didn’t, you’d die, and I couldn’t let that happen. I didn’t plan to be gone for so long, I had only planned for a few months, but it took much longer than I thought. Getting rid of it, the web that Moriarty left behind. That’s what I’ve been doing. I’m sorry,” Sherlock rambled, getting everything he could out in one breath before John could slam the door in his face. He bit his lip again, waiting. “I…I don’t know what’s happened without me, but I’d love to go back to how we were, before…” He trailed off.

John shook his head, standing at the door mutely. He didn’t know whether to hug Sherlock or to punch him. He frowned, seeing the bruises and scars, and decided that the man obviously didn’t need any more pain. So he moved forwards, clutching Sherlock tightly. Sherlock wanted to wrap his arms around John in return, but he couldn’t. He gasped, letting out a small cry of pain at the tight hold, and John quickly let go, swearing softly.

“Uh…come…come inside,” John said softly, taking Sherlock’s hand and helping him up the stairs. He settled the injured man down on a couch, and ran off to get whatever medical supplies he had in the flat. Sherlock just smiled a bit, happy that John had taken so well to his returning. Perhaps he still believed in me, Sherlock thought, remembering the day at the graveyard, in front of his tombstone above an empty grave. He sighed as John came back in, and let the man tend to his numerous wounds.

After over an hour of stitches and bandages and cleaning, John had done the best he could, and Sherlock was more stable than he had been. The man had had several broken bones and ribs, broken fingers, hypothermia, bruising, bleeding, infection, and more. John had been hard pressed to find everything that was wrong with his friends. But now they really needed to talk.

Sherlock knew it was coming, and started to explain. What he had done in the years he had been ‘dead’, how he faked his death, how he got injured, everything. John would interrupt with questions every few minutes, about something he didn’t understand or wanted to know more on, and Sherlock would answer the best he could. Hours later, the story was as finished as it could be, and they both smiled at each other, standing up.

“I believe I deserve a night’s sleep,” Sherlock said, smiling sadly. He sighed, and started walking to his room, quickly helped by John. He tried to shake it off, used to years on his own, suffering alone, but John persisted. Secretly, he was glad for it. He missed this, being able to trust John, lean on him in times of need. He hobbled to his room, and lay down in the bed, inhaling, before frowning. The bed didn’t smell like it had been sitting alone for years, untouched. In fact, the bed smelled like John. He looked up at the doctor curiously.

“Have…you been sleeping in my bed?” Sherlock asked, smiling slightly at the idea. John flushed. He had been hoping Sherlock wouldn’t notice, but that was a stupid notion. Of course the man would notice, he noticed everything. Including the blush. John smiled sheepishly, shrugging. “I…I missed you. You have no idea, it was hell,” He whispered sadly, his smiled fading. Sherlock thought for a moment, before grabbing John’s hand and pulling him down into the bed. John startled, squeaking slightly in shock, but fell down. They ended up awkwardly lying next to each other, not quite touching, but not apart. They were both blushing, but Sherlock quickly fell asleep, exhausted and in need of a proper rest.

John smiled as his breathing evened out, and he turned over onto his side, looking at Sherlock. He didn’t know how he felt about the man, but it was more than friendship, he knew that much. He didn’t know if it was love, or something more, but it was strong, and having Sherlock back made it all the stronger. He knew he couldn’t tell the detective, of course. Sherlock wasn’t a romantic person, he had no interest in relationships, and it wasn’t ‘his area’. John smiled fondly as he remembered the first dinner they had together at Angelo’s, when he had protested greatly the assumption he was Sherlock’s date.

Thinking back on it, he didn’t really understand why he was so persistent about it. Sure, he wasn’t /gay/, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t love a man, right? John sighed, having no idea on how these things worked. He did remember that Sherlock didn’t protest the notion at all though, which John didn’t notice at the time. But thinking back on it, why wouldn’t he? Sherlock wouldn’t let people think he was on a date with just anyone, after all. If he and Lestrade had gone out for lunch, Sherlock would have denied it, possibly (likely) with a scathing retort. But he didn’t say anything about John.

But, John reasoned, that was just after they had met. Sherlock couldn’t have felt that strongly about him after such a short period of time, after all. John sighed, shaking his head. Now he was imagining that Sherlock had /feelings/ for him. It was impossible, and he needed to put the thought to rest. He tore his eyes away from the sleeping man’s face, and quickly fell asleep. He only just missed the muttered words of the consulting detective next to him.

“John,”


End file.
